


Shut Your Cakehole

by dotfic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 05:10:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a hunt gone awry, Sam and Dean have to use an alternate method of communicating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shut Your Cakehole

**Author's Note:**

> a/n: Set mid season 2. A very belated birthday present for marinarusalka. Thank you to musesfool for the beta.

The rush of his own heartbeat in his ears, the scratchy press of something around his wrists, a pull in the muscles of his shoulders all flood in at Dean as he wakes up. Two thoughts follow, skittering after -- his head hurts, and _Sam_.

 _Sam_. His tongue presses against the roof of his mouth, forming the syllable in the familiar way. He's said it a thousand times in his life, but he can't hear himself say it now even if he feels his jaw moving to speak. He tries again and still nothing, but he can hear fine, his own heartbeat and breathing, the sound of dripping water. He sees okay too, blinking a few times to clear his vision. The room's dim, no light bulb, but daylight's coming in through grimy little arched cellar windows set deep in the old brick. The wood of a chair is under him, a bitter taste of dust and mustiness in his mouth.

He turns his head, and there's Sam, tied to another chair a few yards from Dean. His head's lolling forward, hair covering his eyes. It doesn't look like he's bleeding, but Dean won't know for sure until he can get a better look at him.

Dean says his name again, but all that comes out is a formless breath of air. His throat doesn't hurt. When he tries to clear it, the friction of the action is there, but not the noise. He wriggles in his chair, making it scrape across the cement floor, and Sam stirs then, lifts his head, and turns towards Dean. There's no blood on his face, and Dean feels the tightness in his chest ease.

Then Sam mouths Dean's name. Creases form deep in his forehead when no sound comes out, and he frowns. He does it again. More frown. He gives Dean a bewildered lost-puppy look that hurts a little, and Dean shrugs against his bonds in a way he hopes looks calm.

They screwed up, let the necromancer surprise them instead of the other way around, but it'll be fine. Dean will make sure they'll be fine. No sense in panicking Sam or letting him see how bad this is.

* * *

This is bad. This is really, really bad. He feels stupid on top of the worm of panic in his stomach as he runs through options as to why he and Dean can't make a sound. Days of research on necromancers, stacks of books that made him sneeze, pictures of sigils and talismans, descriptions of rituals, staring at his laptop screen so long his eyes started to burn, and what good was it all? What good was he, all his research? When they walked in -- all right, when they broke into the guy's house -- they failed to anticipate how tricky a necromancer might be. Sam remembers the first look they got of him up close. He was a little taller than Sam, dark hair thick beyond the receding hairline, smile broad and condescending as he turned towards them.

"Oh no, intruders," he said smoothly, and snapped his fingers with one hand while he lifted a shining object from the table with the other.

Sam's head and neck muscles hurt. The chair's a little too small for him, the ropes at his ankles and wrists causing his body to hunch. Sam glances over at Dean, whose shoulders twitch as he works at his bonds. There's no sign of blood on Dean's skin or his clothes -- at least there's that.

Bright flash of light, the world going dark, and then here they are, in this smelly cellar room that looks like its walls haven't been touched since at least the Civil War. The people of Cold Falls are beleaguered, their dead loves ones tools in a game of emotional blackmail and manipulation of the will, and Sam Winchester's research skills are worth exactly shit. Half the town does whatever the necromancer asks, because they're terrified or they think he's doing them a favor. In the diner where he and Dean had their lunch, everyone looked nervous, tired, beaten down.

Sam can't save them. Sam can't save anyone.

Almost anyone.

His brain wants to worry at the rest of the thought, follow the trail of it until it winds back to his father, because it always winds back to his father, but even if he can't save the people of Cold Falls, Dean's tied up in that other chair.

He's got one knot at his wrist loosened, can't tell what kind of progress Dean is making, the light's too anemic and dim to tell.

That's when he hears the scratching.

* * *

Dean's making decent progress on the knots, the hemp rough under his fingers as he works it, rubbing against his skin. He'll have red marks later, which is the least of his worries. He keeps glancing over at Sam, who seems okay, slight movement in his shoulders to show how he's working at getting his hands free too. Sam's face scrunches with the physical effort and with concentration. Looks like one of his arms is moving more freely -- the kid's always been good at this; he's working his way out faster than Dean. Or maybe his sheer size, gangly arms and legs, makes it more difficult to keep bonds tied tight around him.

 _Scratch-scratch._

His hands go still. Dean leans forward, straining to listen. He meets Sam's gaze, and raises his eyebrows. Sam purses his lips; he's heard the same thing, but it's a question mark.

Jerking his head at Sam, the back-to-work signal, Dean traces his fingers over the curves of another knot, finds the weak spot. He's almost got it, this he can handle, he's not screwing this up. His brain skitters over things he doesn't know what to do with, pushes them roughly aside. The core of his job hasn't changed, after all, that's always been a constant.

 _Scratch-scratch._

 _Scratch-scratch._

There's more than one of whatever it is now, location unknown, although it seems to be coming from the general direction of the door. Dean needs to get back to work on that knot, right now, move along, but his fingers won't move yet, not yet. He strains to listen. The sound's familiar -- in Dean's experience a certain kind of creature makes it.

Sam's chair scrapes on the floor, and the tone of it is emphatic as saying Dean's name sharply. Dean glances over at him and mouths the word _rats_. He's not expressing frustration, oh no, Dean's life would never be as sweet as that. What Dean's hearing has to be the furry, beady-eyed little bastards.

Work the knots. Work the knots. The scratching grows louder.

Then a small shadow appears in a dark corner of the room, emerging as twitching nose and whiskers, furry body and a long tail, scuttling at an odd gait along the floor. It stops, going up on its hind legs.

There's something wrong with it.

* * *

When the rat halts its run across the floor, Sam notices that Dean's movements halt too. He's not working the knots, he's looking at the rat. When the rat drops to all fours and keeps running, there's something off about its movements. The rat leans with a shuffling kind of limp, its eyes vivid red like drops of blood. It runs to the next wall, staying in the shadows, not approaching them yet.

Dean's shoulders are rigid, and his fingers haven't gone back to work on the knots. Sam knows that particular set of his jaw. Somewhere inside his brother's head there's probably a running litany of _keep it together, keep it together_. He imagines Dean's been doing that since they were little, although it wasn't until Sam hit eighteen he recognized it, and it wasn't really until after Palo Alto, maybe the thing with the wendigo, that Sam fully understood.

* * *

He has to keep his game face on, because if he lets a stupid rodent spook him, Sam's going to start believing they're screwed, and Sam's pessimistic enough these days already. Dean's heart is going too fast. It's just a rat, a stupid little rat that Dean could crush with his boot if it got too close. Well, if his feet were free. _So get it together, get the knots undone, you jackass, so Sam doesn't have to die in a cold cellar because some wanna-be sorcerer freak got the better of you, because you were sloppy._

His finger traces the knot, feeling out the gaps in it, but he stops again when a second rat appears at the hole, nothing but a pair of red eyes at first. Shit. Shit, he's not having a meltdown now, after everything they've been through, it would be too fucking stupid that this -- okay, fine, it's a _phobia_ \-- would mess him up.

Sam's chair scrapes and thumps across the floor. Then Dean feels Sam's fingers on his palm.

* * *

Dean nods his head in acknowledgment before Sam feels Dean's fingers move to work on the knots at Sam's wrist. Another rat emerges from the hole as Sam starts working on the knots at Dean's wrist, but Dean doesn't freeze this time. Strange to think that maybe he would if Sam wasn't right there next to him, that Sam can have that effect. It seems upside-down, backwards, yet it eases something in Sam, makes him feel better, like less of a dead weight. It makes him think of that time when Dean was seventeen and had a wicked high fever after an injury, and even with Dad right there to look after Dean, giving Sam orders, it was Sam's hand Dean gripped, palm damp with cold sweat, Sam that calmed him down.

The ropes loosen. Sam wrenches hard against them -- it stings but it's worth it to be done with this. His hands free, he undoes the ropes at his ankles, then stands up and unties Dean's hands while more rats scuttle into the room. They continue to stay along the walls, shambling in a macabre line. When Dean's hands are free he makes impatient motions at Sam, snapping his fingers, pointing at his feet and Sam unties Dean as quickly as he can.

He almost laughs when Dean climbs onto the chair. One of the rats turns and hisses at them, showing its tiny, sharp teeth. The quick jolt of adrenaline drives the desire to laugh out of Sam as he grabs the back of the other chair, wood rough to the touch, and yanks the chair between himself and the rats.

Sam looks up at Dean, sure he's probably laughing at him by now, but Dean's expression is hard. He points at the window, but then they both make the same dismissive gesture -- neither of them can fit through it.

* * *

It's really kind of funny, when you stepped back to think about it. Oh, yeah, they were a couple of tough guys, all right. Dean watches his brother turn with the chair out in front of him, holding it like a weapon. Sam seems almost too large to fit in this room. He was a shrimp in high school, but one day Dean had to look up to see his eyes -- he swore it happened overnight, like a curse or a magic growth spell.

More rats crawl out of the hole in the corner. Right above it the jagged edges of a broken patch of wall look exactly like a map of Idaho. The brick isn't looking too solid there, maybe they can kick through it. Dean waves his hand to get Sam's attention and makes a sharp gesture, palm flat, towards the broken piece of wall.

Sam's lips tighten and he shakes his head. Dean makes a questioning face. It seems like a perfectly good plan, and sometimes Sam could be difficult, always wanting to do things the complicated, subtle way that meant the least amount of property damage, which was fucking ridiculous.

Then Sam puts down the chair, keeping one hand gripping the back of it while he gestures towards the wall with the other. He makes a fist and mimes a punch, then opens his fingers to show the wall crumbling.

Dean nods impatiently, rotates his hand in a circle.

Sam sighs and lets go of the chair. With his right hand he mimes crumbling, and wriggles the fingers of his left to indicate something crawling out.

Right.

Stupid, stupid rats. Dean's not scared of them, he's not. They're disgusting, they carry disease, any sensible person would feel the same way.

He jerks his head towards the door, and Sam nods.

* * *

The hinges of the door are too thick for a penknife blade to work, if Sam had one on him. He has his keys, but those won't do either. The necromancer took their knives off of them, along with their handguns and their cell phones.

Dean jumps down off his chair, picks it up, and jabs it towards the fresh wave of rats emerging from the hole, while Sam smashes his chair against the floor. The wood cracks with a snap, pieces flying, and Dean ducks before he gives Sam a sharply cautioning look. Sam just shrugs at him, a small burn of annoyance flaring in his chest and then gone -- this is just Dean being Dean. Bossy.

Kneeling, Sam starts on the bottom hinge first. He jams the narrowest part of the broken wood into the thin space where the top of the pin meets the round. Sam knows how to remove hinges and pick fourteen different kinds of locks. Dean probably knows twice that, and this isn't the first time they've removed the hinges to get a door open in the middle of a hunt. In 1999, Dad did something like what Sam's doing now, only he used his penknife, while Sam held the flashlight and Dean aimed a shotgun into the darkness behind them, back almost touching Sam's. The beam only shook, once, a little, when the growling got too loud; Sam's proud of that.

Sam wonders how much Dean does that, his mind catching on things that remind him of their father, if Dean's remembering the same hunt Sam's remembering.

But he can't think too much about Dad -- his mind always stumbles into what Dad said about him. The sting of it makes him catch his breath it hurts so much. He forces himself to focus on the small imperfections on the hinge, the rust forming at the edges, the old-fashioned knob on top of the pin.

Behind him Dean's boots stomp on the cement. Sam glances over his shoulder to see Dean swinging the chair, driving back half a dozen rats. Dean's mouth clearly forms the words _fuck it_ and he pulls out his lighter, puts the chair on the floor, and brings his boot down to break off the chair leg.

The dance of flame as the old wood starts to burn tints the old metal of the hinge orange. The fire is better than the useless thin light coming through the window. He turns back to his work while Dean stands over him and waves his makeshift torch at the rats, who fall back with high-pitched squeaks.

The hinge is old, but sturdy, the metal stained with rust at the edges. Sam puts as much of his full weight behind the push as he can, the muscles in his wrists and lower arm starting to ache with it.

* * *

While Dean waves fire at the rats, a fierce satisfaction rushing through him as the creepy little monsters fall back, Sam gets the bottom hinge undone and starts on the middle one. They've got six more chair legs left, and then the slats of the back, and there's plenty of fluid left in his lighter, but there's a dozen rats in the room now, more coming in, and they aren't staying back along the walls any more.

Not that Dean's panicking, no way. He can almost hear a low, familiar deep voice in his ear warning him about panic, telling him to button it down.

Neither of them have been able to do so much as grunt, so it's not a noise that tips Dean off, but Sam's body jerks in a way that looks like a cry and he drops the chair leg he's using to pry up the hinge pins. As Dean moves to get a closer look at him, Sam's sucking on the edge of his palm, face twisted in a wince.

Holding the torch away from them, Dean grabs his hand, pulling it away from his mouth. There's a smear of blood and a small gash. Sam's other hand is clenched. Dean lets go of Sam's hand and reaches for his fist. There's a struggle until Sam lets Dean pry his fingers open, revealing a deeper gash, blood smeared on Sam's skin, bringing out the lines of his palm.

A few rats get a bit too close, maybe smelling the blood, and Dean waves the torch at them, stomping his boots, driving them back. That tears it -- Dean's going to finish the work on the door. He's holding the torch out to Sam so he'll take it, but Sam's jaw clenches.

He wipes his hands on his flannel shirt, leaving streaks of blood that mingle with the red in the checked pattern already there, picks up the chair leg, and goes to work on the middle hinge again. When Dean grips Sam's shoulder, Sam shrugs him off hard enough that Dean takes a step back.

Dean's got no choice but to turn and drive off the rats. The fire's eating the chair leg -- time for another one. He flings the remains of the torch into the thickest cluster of rats, the air filling with the scent of singed fur, and breaks off another chair leg. He lights it as the second hinge pin clatters to the floor.

Stubborn-ass little brother. His palms are probably sticky with blood, making it difficult to work on the top hinge, but he's getting it done.

There's something familiar about the way the rats move, the odd shambling, and then it clicks in Dean's mind, they're _zombies_. The son of a bitch necromanced himself an army of rats.

Zombie rats.

Dean starts laughing, shoulders shaking and no sound coming out and Sam must've noticed the way the torchlight changed because he turns to look at Dean, eyebrows curved in a question, but Dean waves his free hand that he'll explain later. They really don't have time right now to play charades with Dean acting out _Night of the Living Dead_.

* * *

Sam's dying to know what's so funny but Dean's not telling. The top hinge pin works its way out half an inch, the blood on his palms drying, sticky, making it difficult to grip. Also, it hurts. He glances over his shoulder. Dean's back is to him, his attention focused on the rats and the fire, so there's no fuss when Sam wraps the hem of his flannel shirt around the chair leg to cushion where his palms got scraped.

When Dean's on chair leg number three, the pin finally slides free. Sam reaches back and tugs on Dean's sleeve. When he has Dean's attention, he holds up the pin.

* * *

With the remains of the chairs burning in a half-circle at their feet, they pull the heavy door out of its frame, fingers straining. Dean's breath begins to ache in his chest; if he'd had a voice, he'd probably be grunting with exertion. They both kick at any rats that get too close despite the fire. The flames are warm against Dean's legs. An ember lands on his jeans and Dean kicks it away with his other boot before he and Sam ease the door over to lean it against the wall. Dean's tempted to drop it on top of the rats but it doesn't matter now, there's no time.

They're free, but their job's not done.

* * *

The job's not done, but Sam's not sure what's next. He follows his brother out into the shadowed space of the cellar room next to their prison. It's a long, low-ceilinged space, brick arches forming support. There are other doors, other rooms but Dean's striding past them. Sam knows that walk, the way Dean's head ducks a little between tense shoulders.

He follows his brother.

* * *

When they're almost at the wooden steps, Dean puts up a hand with the signal to stop. Behind him, Sam's tall form withdraws into the shadows.

There's a light here, a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and ordinary basement things like washer and dryer, cardboard boxes, and about eight wooden trunks.

A rat scurries over Dean's boot. He kicks it off and can feel the yell in his chest and throat, even if nothing breaks the quiet. There's only the scuffing of his soles against the cement floor.

He looks at Sam, whose face is half in shadow, expecting laughter in his eyes but Sam looks sort of blank, like he's sick of rats and wishes this were over with.

* * *

It might be funny, the way Dean jumps a mile, limbs jerking, when the rat runs over his foot. However, Sam doesn't feel like laughing. The basement's chilly, his palms sting so bad it throbs, and there's something frightening about Dean's instinctive panicked motion. Dean's on a keen edge, has been for a while now. Ever since Dad died, and Sam misses Dean as he was. Sometimes it's like he's riding in the car next to a stranger.

The house is quiet above them. Dean reaches out and tugs at Sam's sleeve, pulling him under the light bulb. Dean grabs his wrists, turns his palms over, and studies the gashes.

He tries to pull his hands away but Dean's grip is implacable. Finally, Dean lets go, snatches two clean men's socks from the basket on top of the dryer, and wraps them around Sam's hands.

With the air no longer against the torn skin, it hurts less. Sam knows there's a practicality to it -- if he can't grip and hold on, he's a less effective hunter. But Dean's hands are gentle, tying the socks into place, and Sam also knows it's more than that.

* * *

They find their guns and knives and cell phones in a cabinet in the library. Age has darkened and cracked the wood. On top of it rests two old bottles, the muddy green glass casting a faint hue as the light shines through it. The cork stoppers look new.

"Did you enjoy the rats?"

When the man speaks, a sting of adrenaline shoots through Sam. They hadn't even known he was in the room, but when he and Dean turn, he's in the big armchair, long legs crossed, watching them as if he's curious to see what they'll do next. Sam can't remember if he looked at the chair a moment ago and saw it empty or not.

The man's mouth curves into a big, broad smile.

Sam raises his gun at the same time as Dean does, and both flip up the middle finger of their free hand in unison.

The necromancer laughs, and Dean's finger spasms against the trigger.

Then the man in the armchair lifts his hand, something nestled in his palm, a circle of glass with an object embedded inside it that looks like it might be a piece of flesh and bone. It catches the sunlight coming in through the window, throwing out a blinding glint of light that slides from Sam to Dean.

Dean staggers, his jaw tightening, and drops to his knees, gun clutched in his hand. He hunches over, and his mouth opens. Sam feels like he's not even himself, watching his brother let out a silent scream of agony -- it's dreamlike. Dean's fingers go slack and he drops the gun.

There's a trickle of blood at the corner of Dean's mouth and the sense of unreality snaps as Sam aims at the dark-haired man in the chair and pulls the trigger.

Nothing happens. There are bullets in the clip. The gun doesn't go off.

He drops the gun and leaps, tackling the necromancer. The room lurches as the chair tips, while Sam grips the man's wrists, digging his knees into his stomach.

* * *

His vision's swimming a little but he's pretty sure that's Sam lunging forward, landing on the necromancer, the chair falling over. The two of them roll out of the chair, Sam gripping the man's wrists.

The pain's a thread twisting through Dean, tangled in him, and he needs it to stop, to fucking stop, because there's Sam struggling away but Dean can barely move, can barely draw in a breath. He hates witches...warlocks, no, necromancers...what the hell ever, they're all cut from the same cloth, with their dishonest magic and their use of bodily fluids and human bits and zombified rats.

Sam yanks the guy's wrist, slams his hand hard down against the wood floor. Even if Dean can't quite see what's happening, he hears a crunch, and it could be bone, but it sounds more like glass.

The pain's gone. Dean blinks and sees the shards on the floor; Sam's broken the talisman.

The necromancer curses and lands a blow across Sam's jaw hard enough to knock Sam off. Sam lands on his side, the thud making the floorboards shake, and the necromancer's lunges at Sam, but Dean's already up. He lets loose with a kick to the guy's chest, and while he's recovering from that, Dean gets behind him.

The guy's a big sonofabitch, heavier than Dean and taller than Sam, but Dean wrenches his arms behind his back.

* * *

It's two steps, his knife fitting comfortable in his hand, before Sam drives the blade into the soft flesh of the man's stomach.

His whole body tenses, a thin sound emerging from him as he meets Sam's eyes, looking as if he's vaguely surprised things went this way. Sam wonders if the man believes he's going to his death, or knows this is only temporary. They'll burn the body to be sure.

There's blood warm on Sam's knuckles. Dean lets go of the necromancer as Sam steps away from the slumping body, pulling his blade free at the same time.

The room spins as he looks down at the eyes that stare sightlessly towards the ceiling.

Dean touches his shoulder, and the room steadies.

* * *

The way Sam's gaze goes far off, hollow, brittle, and lost, makes Dean's stomach twist but it can't be helped. It's not the first human-shaped evil they've had to kill and it won't be the last. (Part of Dean's brain whispers that it wasn't human-shaped, it was human, only doing inhuman things. For a moment he sees Mrs. Tanner, knees drawn up to her chest, eyes terrified).

They're not done here yet. He grips Sam's shoulder, makes Sam look at him and watches Sam's gaze focus. The socks tied around his wrists are stained a deeper red now, the backs of his hands damp with blood. Sam wipes his blade clean with the edge of his shirt, puts it away in its sheath, then wipes his hands.

Dean picks up one of the bottles, turns to Sam, and lifts his eyebrows in a question.

Sam gives a one-shouldered shrug, a wry twist to his mouth.

They have nothing to lose, so Dean smashes the bottle on the edge of the cabinet and then his own scream echoes in his ears -- it feels _good_ , tearing from his throat.

He hands the other bottle to Sam, who breaks it, then lets out a yell.

* * *

"Holy shit!" Dean speaks first, his voice raspy, as if he's had laryngitis.

"I know!" Sam's voice sounds hoarse to his own ears.

"Man, I hate witches," Dean says.

"Warlock." Sam picks up his gun. He coughs, trying to get his voice to go clear. It doesn't work. "Actually, he was a necromancer."

"Dude, does it even matter?"

"Not really." Sam's hands are sticky. He wants to find the bathroom and wash them. He wants to take a shower, with water so hot it scalds, steam surrounding him. He feels queasy.

"Okay." Dean picks up his gun, his movements brisk, his gaze tracking over the room before he goes to stand over the body lying sprawled on the floor. "First we take care of that, then we kill the rats, and then we blow this popcorn stand."

* * *

It's dark by the time they're done.

They check out of the tiny motel where they're staying and leave town a little after midnight. Sam's too quiet in the car, looks pale even allowing for the dim light, corners of his mouth drawn down while he leans his head against the window glass. The lights of passing cars slip over them. Dean hasn't seen Sam look at his own hands; they're clean now, dressed in white gauze secured with surgical tape. The shirt Sam's wearing is also clean, the bloodied one thrown in the laundry duffel.

"He manipulated and hurt a lot of people," Dean says, his voice stronger now, although there's still a small burn in the back of his throat. "We did what we had to do."

For a while Dean thinks Sam's not even going to answer him, but then he says, his voice small and scratched, "I know."

More miles roll away beneath them. Dean thinks he should say something else, wishes he had the words to make this better, but he can't find them.

They remain silent, even if they don't have to.

  
~end


End file.
